


Sometimes, a Bargain of Chaos

by MrsNoggin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Copious use of Metaphor, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, my usual whimsical nonsense, possible bi-polar disorder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-05-13 22:19:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5719096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsNoggin/pseuds/MrsNoggin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Initially Sherlock had wanted to fix John just because he could. That he could do it where no one else had managed. The fact that he was fixable would therefore prove that perhaps Sherlock was too. So yes, it had started selfishly. It had <b>started</b> long ago. It’s become something else entirely now. </i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>(TWs in chapter notes - they're not numerous!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> _This is unbetaed, etc. so let me know if there is anything glaring. The rating will be going up later. THIS IS A WIP - I have no schedule for updates, but I'm going to try and get them up within a week or so of each other. However, it's not written yet, so you'll have to be patient with me._
> 
> _It's mainly a whole bunch of angst with a bit of fluff here and there. If you have any triggers regarding mental health issues, minor mentions of suicide contemplation, minor mentions of physical and emotional torture or any general concerns about your triggers and the content just drop me a line and we can discuss. It's not half as dark as this warning makes it sound, but I just like to be careful!_

Sherlock knows John would do anything for him. Sometimes he allows the realisation to warm him, to send that indefinable thrill skittering down his spine, leaving the familiar tingling burn in its wake. Sometimes it scares him.

Sometimes, when Sherlock is sitting and staring at nothing, he’s not actually. Not _nothing_. John assumes his eyes are sightless, looking inward. Sometimes they are. But occasionally he just lets John think they are, so he can sit and stare at _something_. So he can watch uninterrupted, observe and relearn the rhythm of John’s eyes tracking over the lines of text on his book, or the minor twitches in his facial muscles as he tries not to react to his insipid TV dramas (so as not to disturb any ‘thinking’).

But only sometimes.

* * *

 

The desk is an unwise place to fall asleep. The surface is hard upon a face that might fall onto it, there is an irritating draught from one of the windows, the chair has a terrible habit of tipping with uneven weight distribution. John should have learned all this from experience. He is still asleep there.

He rouses at a curse and a thump from close by, and opens his eyes to see Sherlock apparently rifling through another box of papers. Apparently. He’s really just pretending to so John doesn’t throw something at him for waking him up deliberately.

“Y’alright?” John asks drowsily, still yet to remember that he is supposed to be searching too.

“Go to bed. Your snoring is distracting.” It’s not; it’s rather soothing actually.

“I’m fine,” John lies. He wipes the drool from the corner of his mouth and lifts a sheet of paper to squint at. The numbers must be swimming around merrily - John’s focus is visibly doing the same.

“You are of no use to me. Useless. Go to bed. Sleep some. Find your uses again.” Even Sherlock is talking exhausted nonsense now, but he won’t sleep until he’s finished this. His brain would just keep on doing it anyway, with or without his permission. John has no such issues - in fact, he’s asleep again already. Still on the tippy chair. Sherlock sighs and gives the base an encouraging prod with his foot. Smiles to himself at the following creak and multiple resounding thuds and thumps. Doesn’t look up.

* * *

 

It wasn’t the mystery, it wasn’t the psychosomatic limp, it wasn’t the easygoing nature (if that had even pretended to exist in the first place - John isn’t even on the spectrum of easygoing in reality), nor the satisfactory reactions to the stimulus Sherlock threw his way. It was his eyes. Not a soldier’s eyes, nor a doctor’s, but the haunted eyes of someone who knows they have fallen apart and that they have not the slightest idea if they are ever going to be anywhere near complete again. The secret, silent, scraping despair of loss - loss of oneself.

Initially Sherlock had wanted to fix John just because he could. That he could do it where no one else had managed. The fact that he was fixable would therefore prove that perhaps Sherlock was too. So yes, it had started selfishly. It had started long ago. It’s become something else entirely now.

* * *

 

In the back of the taxi, John has started writing up the case in his head already. Sherlock can see his lips tremor, as though he is speaking the words almost aloud to himself to cement them in his memory. Sherlock really should start trying to teach him some basic (but better) methods of remembrance and recall. It would make their lives so much easier. More bearable for Sherlock anyway, he tells himself.

He doesn’t though, he just watches.

John’s fingers curl into a grip of air above his leg as he wishes he had a pen and paper to hand. Not a keyboard - that will never be natural to him. Sherlock has seen the tic many times; sometimes for a pen, for a weapon, for a cup of tea resting just out of reach. Sometimes for something more. He thought he had deleted those moments, but at least one memory remains… An instance of John’s fingers reaching automatically across a space between them, reaching for _him_. The movement had been cut off abruptly, John drawing back.

Apparently Sherlock missed that one. He tries removing it again, because remembering that is doing nobody any favours. It doesn’t work.

A horrifying thought suddenly materialises - inspired by a snippet of aborted affection, fuelled with his own occasionally crippling self-doubt and catalysed by the space, a gaping hole instantly opened in his knowledge. It must be filled. Now.

“Do you trust me, John?”

“You seriously have to ask?” John is looking out of the window. He doesn’t even feel the enquiry is worth turning around for.

“I’ve done terrible things to you,” Sherlock points out. Not today, that he knows of. Today’s case was a simple one; solved with one visit, a handful of questions and a quick look over a tattoo parlour. John was at no risk at all. Sherlock wonders if he should have pretended one of them needed an inking, just to keep up his end of their bargain of chaos. He wonders if John would have done it.

“You’ve done wonderful things to me.”

Ah, that would be why he’s not turning. In his infinite emotional wisdom ( _not_ ), John doesn’t like eye contact when he opens up. He likes to keep at least a little defence raised.

“And you wonder why people talk.” Now Sherlock’s doing the other thing. The turn to humour to hide your feelings thing. He hates that thing. So he makes an effort to return to seriousness. “But when you weigh up the—”

“I weigh it up all the time, Sherlock. All the time.” John sighs, a little cloud of breath that swirls damply in the interior of the taxi. It’s not cold enough to steam, but Sherlock feels he can see it all the same. John sniffs casually before continuing, jarring the heavy silence with his faux-casual tic. “You’ve messed with my head a lot over the years, but the only reason there’s a head to mess with is because you mess with it in the first place. It’s kind of yours to mess with, if you know what I mean…”

“I do.” He doesn’t.

“Do you?”

“Err, no.”

“Didn’t think so.” John reaches for Sherlock’s hand. Completes the motion this time and gives it a squeeze. Doesn’t let go.

* * *

 

John’s shoulder always hurts. Constantly. Sherlock can’t help but see it, no matter how well it is hidden. Sometimes, obviously, the pain is more severe, more biting than others. Sometimes it just gnaws relentlessly, but that’s not much better. Sometimes it puts John to bed with opiate derivatives and the curtains closed. If he’s caught at the wrong angle with the corner of an elbow on a cold damp evening, or with the bluntness of another shoulder in a doorway early in the morning when he’s still sleep-stiff and crumpled, the sheen of pain in his eyes will become a bright glimmer, shining sharp in the light.

“S’fine,” he’ll say. “Don’t worry.”

But most of the time it can be forgotten, or at least pushed to one side for a while. Until it gets bruised or cold or overused. Sherlock is usually to blame for those.

“Sorry, John,” he says.

John doesn’t tell him not to worry when he actually apologises. Just smiles that unsmiling smile. Blinks slowly.

* * *

 

_The Wall_. Metaphorical, or perhaps not quite. Sherlock doesn’t hit The Wall - rather it hits him; grips him with the rough surface of its bricks, every corner and groove catching at the exposed naked skin of him, scratching and scraping as he slides down in slow motion. He’d used to try and cling on, sometimes he still does; straining muscles and ripping fingernails. But usually now he just waits for the end, the bottom, the cold hard ground. Sometimes the wall goes on for miles and miles and days and lifetimes. Sometimes he just wakes up and finds himself already in a slumped, numb heap at the bottom of it.

Most of his time is spent perched atop The Wall, kicking his feet and looking around at the world. He can see so much (too much?) from there. Landscape far into the distance, unmarred by fog or focus. Right down to the scales of skin and individual hairs on the bug buzzing around in front of his eye ( _culex pipiens - might bite him, could squash it, not going to_ ). And everything in between. Everything. Details screaming at him like recalcitrant children, caterwauling for a scrap of his attention. _Everything._

Sometimes he stands there, even higher, feels the breeze ruffle thrillingly through his hair, breathes it in deep and lets the essence of life expand and fill his chest. But it’s risky - standing can lead to walking, which then unfailingly grows to leaning, dancing, swaying dangerously from side to side trying to keep his balance, looking down at the ground, so far far away and all the while knowing at some point he’ll be down there, trying to claw his way back up.

One day he might just stop clawing.

* * *

 

“He won’t be a pet,” Mycroft had said after his first meeting John. “You can’t just move him in and expect him to follow you around and do as he’s told.”

“He already does.”

Careless shrug, raise left eyebrow, pout bottom lip - structured nonchalance. Mycroft had not been fooled. He had looked down, cold eyes sweeping over Sherlock’s prone position, stretched along the length of the sofa. He sniffed meaningfully, reminding Sherlock that he hadn’t actually washed or shaved for three days. A minor blip, easily mistaken for idleness at this stage, he hoped. It was an effort not to shrink away and hide a bit, turn away from that glaringly patronising smirk.

“He won’t play your nursemaid, brother.”

As usual, his arsehole of a sibling had got it all wrong. Well not _all_ , just most. And then twisted it around and bastardised it, managing to get near enough to the truth anyway. Wanker. Sherlock stayed silent. His jaw clenched itself.

“Ah, I see.” He probably did, the pompous twat. “You’ll play _his_ … Or try to.”

“Fuck off, Mycroft.”

“Really now, what would Mummy say if she saw you like this - this low, this petulantly angry with the world?”

Sherlock hadn’t been angry. Not with the world, nor with his brother, not even with himself. Just sad. Sad enough that it was even sadder because he had nothing to actually be sad about. Except that he was sad. Which was a perfectly rubbish word, come to think of it. How could three simple common letters, one syllable, a fraction of a second, convey the chillingly molten turmoil weighing down his entire being…

Ugh, his blink hurt. Thinking was zapping his diminishing energy supply. His eyes were wet.

“She’d probably tell you to fuck off as well,” John had suddenly mused aloud from his startling position, leant in the doorway.

Both Holmeses had jolted a little at that. John’s ability to sneak up on people is still a mystery to this day. As is his ability to get rid of Mycroft with a simple twitch of his mouth and a minute jerk of his head.


	2. John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _John Watson would do almost anything for Sherlock Holmes. Almost. He draws the line at murdering innocents and he’d prefer to keep his pants on in public, but apart from that, he’d move Heaven and Earth, if only he knew how._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Still unbetaed, I'm afraid. I'll give it a good going over when I get to the end. And really, weekly updates? Who was I kidding?! Apologies, many many apologies._

* * *

 

Since Sherlock came back to him, he is a different man. They both are. Different men than they were, long ago, when life revolved around each other, though neither would ever have admitted it at the time.

Some things are clear and obvious; some have taken longer to seep into John’s conscious mind. Some never have, but have just been accepted and adjusted for by a part of him that hasn’t bothered to register the effort. John Watson would do almost anything for Sherlock Holmes. Almost. He draws the line at murdering innocents and he’d prefer to keep his pants on in public, but apart from that, he’d move Heaven and Earth, if only he knew how.

* * *

 

John takes an elbow to the nose. It is enough of a shock that he almost ends up on his arse in the gutter. Instead he gets caught by the mean end of a crowbar on the way down and crumples straight down, bypassing his arse completely. Not unconscious, just stunned, and hurting.

In John’s momentary lapse, Sherlock becomes some sort of avenging angel, taking on both men with roar of anger, a whipping arm and a sharp stamping kick to a kneecap. Beauty. Perfection. He’s no match for a solid cylinder of iron though, and John has just enough seconds to catch a breath before he has to shove himself back up to join in. He’s in time to block the potentially fatal blow and thrust his hand, knuckles first if course, into the soft abdomen of their opponent with enough force to empty his lungs in an audible whoosh.

Later, the police insist on an ambulance, which is a wise choice considering how much blood there appears to be. Most of it is from the crowbar kiss of John’s head (terrible bleeders, those), but some of it is sourced from the other guys. The original attacker spits loose a tooth and shoots Sherlock a dark look as he is ducked into the back of a police car. His slide in is a practiced move that speaks of prior experience in handcuffed car journeys.

John refuses to lie down on a gurney. But after Sherlock uses his phone to take a picture to show John the mess that used to be back of his head (and prevents his exit from the ambulance with a long-legged barricade and a firm grip of red-stained coat collar), John concedes to a smart set of stitches and a decent dressing in A&E. After all, fixing up the back of your own head is tricky at best, even John will admit.

And if Sherlock saves the photo, it’s to study the wound for science (!). Everyone knows that.

* * *

 

Sherlock wakes John up every hour that night. He entirely ignores John’s protestations that it’s unnecessary. Sometimes it’s with a gentle shake of his shoulder and a whisper. Sometimes with just his footsteps on the wooden floorboards. Once with careful fingers gently probing the newly lumpy skin on the back curve of John’s head.

“Owsodoffdick,” John grumbles bad-temperedly and tries to swat him away.

“Just inspecting the nurses handiwork.”

“He was a doctor.”

“Well, clearly not a seamstress.”

John wants to smile, but his face isn’t awake enough. So he leans back instead, until the base of his skull is cradled away from the pillows by long fingers and lets the world fade away again.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes John covers the odd shift at the clinic. Only when cases are thin on the ground and the NHS asks him very nicely and very desperately. It’s pleasant to get out and be needed.

When he gets home from his latest shift, Sherlock is in mad professor mode - rolled-up shirtsleeves and laboratory goggles, which generally signifies something dreadful is likely still going on in the kitchen. He sits, hunched over the table, with beakers and test tubes in front of him, and sinister brown glass bottles plonked here and there. Gloves should be a part of this outfit, most definitely. They aren’t.

John turns on the spot and heads in the other direction. If Sherlock hasn’t moved all day he’s probably in an offensive, insulting sort of mood. Tea and biscuits can just wait.

“Ah, you’re home.”

The mad professor looks up when John pauses, and an errant curl flops over the front of his plastic eye-protection. He puffs comically at it, trying to shift it and failing. After a few attempts, John takes pity, as Sherlock had undoubtedly known he would, leaning over to curl it around his fingers and poke it back into the general mass. The comment is alone with no additions, and so John lets himself hope it might actually be a fairly pleasant evening.

“An excellent deduction. What gave me away?” A quick glance at the kettle informs him it seems untampered with and untainted by Sherlock’s experiments. A cautious touch - even freshly boiled. Lovely. Except… that means Sherlock has at least filled it (with something) and switched it on. John narrows his eyes. “Uh, anything toxic in the kettle?”

“No more than the usual. Chlorine, aluminium sulphate, fluorosilic acid, blah blah blah, the occasional splodge of weedkiller.”

Right, John reaches for a mug. Regular tap water then.

“Why didn’t you answer my texts?”

“I was at work.”

“Boring.”

“It was, rather. But also more deserving of my attention at that moment than you, I’m afraid.” John checks his reaction, hopes to see agreement, perhaps, or even a tinge of guilt. No joy. Sherlock has a test tube up in front of his face and is stirring it slowly with a glass rod. John rolls his eyes, “I assume you found the answers out anyway?”

The aforementioned texts were questions of medical opinion, mainly regarding poisonings. He had checked them on the way home and they were all of a similar non-urgent (in any normal person’s view) nature. The first he had, of course, read immediately upon receiving it, just in case it was another ‘ _ **Went wrong - don’t come home. - SH’**_ or even a ‘ _ **Went wrong - tied up in boot of car in Brixton. Help ASAP. - SH**_ ’. It hadn’t been, so he’d felt quite satisfied to ignore the rest of them.

“Would’ve been quicker if you’d just told me.”

“Would’ve saved us bother effort if you’d just googled it in the first place.”

“Google, schmoogle. What’s the point of living with a doctor if they don’t share their medical knowledge occasionally?”

“What’s the point of owning several laptops and a highspeed broadband connection if you don’t use them?” John retorts. He puts a heavily sugared and lightly milked cup of tea down beside Sherlock and takes his own into the living room. Doesn’t have to look back to prompt the automatic warning, “It’s too hot.”

Sherlock puts the mug back down, a bit hard.

“Google doesn’t make me tea.”

* * *

 

The swagger is always there, but sometimes Sherlock’s shoulders skulk forwards in a defensive roll, instead of the normal effortlessly proud posture. It’s when the world is getting a bit too _much_ , a bit too harsh. John wants to reach up and push them back, to support them into confidence then arrogance, rather than a pale, shielded imitation of it.

“Chinese tonight?”

“Not hungry.”

No, John didn’t think he would be. Which is a shame. Because John would like to feed him up a bit, always has wanted to. Wants to let him mope a bit. Stuff him full of good food and bad takeaways and too much sugary coffee and rich red wine. Then they can get back to what they do - being John & Sherlock, Holmes & Watson, not broken & brokener.

“Well, I’m ordering for both of us,” he insists. Then adds for good measure, “I just wondered if you had a preference.”

Sherlock ignores him and continues flicking through his scrawled notes. The streetlights shimmer through a rainslick window and his face appears silver in the glow. He doesn’t look up, but waits until John picks up his phone from the coffee table.

“Thai.”

* * *

 

There isn’t an instant fix for either of them. They are both pretty much as damaged as each other now, John thinks. Time is an over-prescribed cure and possibly, in his opinion, a bit of a placebo. Who knows if they’re getting better if they can’t remember what better even feels like? Better was lifetimes ago.

John lets Sherlock retreat again, puts another cup of tea down in front of him later and takes it away again without complaining that he hasn’t touched it (or even looked at it to acknowledge its existence).

Now the rain is pungent in the air, heavy and slow. John opens the window and sits upon the ledge. His legs get wet where he hangs them through the outer railings. The flaking black metal is cold on his leaning chin. Raindrops stain the pavement; the miniature impacts spreading and merging moisture into shapeless images.

The wet surface is illuminated by the sweeping beam of passing headlights. For a moment there is a hint of colour, sparkles and glimmers, but then it’s just splotchy grey again. And so is he.

* * *

 

Sherlock’s hand is warm and flat against John’s back. John pretends to be asleep. He is unaware of whether of not Sherlock knows it’s a pretense, but he maintains it regardless. While he accepts that he will do this for his friend happily, he’d really rather Sherlock not know that. Or if he does, he’d rather _he_ didn’t know that Sherlock knew that. Or something. He stays still.

It starts lightly, only the tip of a finger, barely even kissing his skin. Gradually the pressure firms, fingers increasing and spreading until the shape of a hand is clear.

Sherlock is a terrible insomniac. Always has been; using excuses and sneers to hide despair. Sleep is a temperamental lover for him, shying away from frustration and manipulating the man into silent seething rages that push it ever further from his exhausted racing mind. After a full day of only snappish slicing insults and half a night of bumps and thumps that even John can’t sleep through, he knows he will have company. He knows he will feign slumber through the mattress dipping behind him. He knows he’ll half-drift in the light haze of content consciousness, with a fingertip and then a palm, waiting for the touch to become lax and forgotten and finally disappear completely. Perhaps a gentle snore will float through the air. And when he wakes in the morning the other side of John’s bed will be empty, but Sherlock’s eyes will no longer be supported by lavender half-moons or rimmed with those fine lines of mute misery. Or not so much as they were.

The contact is still fully awake. John’s leg twitches of its own accord, jerking down to rid itself of something that doesn’t exist. The hand retreats for a second, lets him settle back into pretend sleep, before returning peacefully, starting with the soft pad of his first digit.

* * *

 

They solve crimes; they find missing jewels, data, children, spouses; they stop schemes and reveal robberies and have a merry old time throughout. This is how it’s meant to be, how it just _is_. Except, when he’s giggling at a crime scene and watching familiar eyes fondly crinkling in return, there is always an unwelcome creeping feeling of ‘ _how long will this last?_ ’ Because how long can it? Even forever would not be enough. And they never had forever anyway.

***

John likes to watch Criminal Minds. He likes the older episodes best. Sherlock detests all crime programmes, always has; he either rips them to shreds or solves them loudly and obnoxiously two scenes in, hoping that ruining the ending might result in it being turned over, or preferably off. But Criminal Minds he will bear. He won’t watch it, but he will let John watch it while he is present. John supposes there is something soothing about the structure; the beat between scenes, the fact that you aren’t always introduced to the criminal in the second scene as a witness or family member. And sometimes you see the lowest of the low in the first moment and watch the rest of the characters trying to catch up, all the while knowing you know something they don’t, except do you? Perhaps Sherlock learns something of human nature from the writing - he certainly doesn’t scoff as often as during most shows. Besides, John knows he likes to show off and explain which real life case the shows is _obviously_ based on and regale him with impressively gruesome and/or distasteful facts afterwards.

“It’s the uncle,” John guesses. He does his guessing out loud, and would certainly never dare to call it anything but _guessing_. If it turns out, which only ever happens rarely, that he is correct, he will crow out loud and bounce around in a most undignified manner.

He shifts his leg into a more comfortable position with a new addition of Sherlock’s bony toes beneath the side of his thigh.

A true detective can’t let such an offensively dim suggestion lie, clearly. “Nope.”

John frowns and tries again to work it out while his space is slowly and sneakily encroached upon. Feet creep surreptitiously further under his leg. A bottom slides closer across the leather surface of the sofa cushion.

“But the necklace,” he insists, carefully not noticing the next teeny shuffle.

Sherlock shrugs, using the movement to slip his back an inch or two down the arm of the couch and wriggle his weight further to John’s end. He waggles his bent knees carelessly, using them presumably in place of hand gestures, and singsongs, “Still no. Close, but nooooo.”

“Hmph.”

“Just watch it. Your clunky attempts are… pitiful. I’m trying to tune this nonsense out so I can think. I’ll just tell you in a minute if you don’t shut up.”

“No!”

“Well, then.”

“Your feet are cold.”

Another shrug. Another wiggle downwards. “They’ll warm up in a minute.”

***

Shooting people is nasty. The aftermath is devastating. It doesn’t matter who they were this time, or what they’d done, or the fact that it’s been a long time since he actually ended anybody. It just matters that for that second he has a life in the balance, and hands that are meant for healing and saving shake less when they are hurting and killing. A bullet to rip through a leg comes as easily as the stitch that might mend it.

No matter how many times he corrects people - doctor before soldier, all he ever seems to be to them is the latter.

_‘Oh, John will be fine, he was a soldier’…_  
‘ _John can do it, he’s trained for that’…  
_ _‘It won’t bother him, he’s been to war’…_

_‘_ _And you invaded Afghanistan’._

He is a lover, not a fighter. But he’s been fighting for so long, he’s not even sure what love is. Is it a clap on the back and a cheerful, if slightly breathless, expression of gratitude from a still-alive detective? Is it shoulders leaning in to each other over the whining, bleeding, young aristocrat turned thief turned wannabe assassin? Or even a relieved grasp of fingers as they realise just how exhausted they are and how close to death they came, again?

John would do anything for Sherlock, but it doesn’t mean he _wants_ to.


	3. Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _John sighs and closes his book. He stands up and stretches creakily. In his mind, Sherlock can see the slip of warm skin revealed under the hem of his t-shirt. He deletes that image immediately._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still unbetaed, unedited, etc. If there is anything glaring please drop me a line. 
> 
> Find me on tumblr [@KatoftheNoggin](http://katofthenoggin.tumblr.com) or on twitter as [@KatNoggin](https://twitter.com/KatNoggin).

* * *

Sometimes, John wants to punch Sherlock, he can see it. Hard. On the nose. John wants to watch the blood spurt out, trickle, clot on Sherlock’s face and stain his clothes. He is not a violent man; only when forced. Sherlock is good at forcing. He takes great pleasure in watching the clench of a square jaw, and fingers flex and curl into a fist.

John doesn’t hit him though.

* * *

 

Sherlock should be alone by now. Twilight is hovering heavy in the air. John has been tired all day, but instead of going to bed, he sits resolutely in his chair. One bare foot is planted against the cushion so he can lean his chin upon his knee while he reads. Or _tries_ to read, because his eyes are focusing and unfocusing at a rate that should have him unconscious in less than a minute.

Nightmares. That’s the only reasonable explanation. It’s certainly not a desire for company - not without accompanying background wittering and irritating efforts to gain Sherlock’s attention. Those are missing, so logic leads to the conclusion that John simply does not want to sleep and risk the nightmares. They come in sessions, usually after a harrowing case, or an attempt on one or both of their lives, but sometimes just of their own accord. Once there is one, there will be another and another, until a week has passed Sherlock has re-memorised the fitful breathing and pitiful whimpers muffled through the floors and walls, despite his efforts not to. John doesn’t talk about them. Sherlock doesn’t ask.

“John.” Sherlock reprimands softly. He doesn’t recall ever being so soft with someone as he can be with John. Or even feeling the need to try. “You need to go to bed.”

“I’m not a child.”

Sherlock shrugs. John is right, of course. And it matters not a whit to Sherlock if he insists on staying up; there is no work that demands his assistance, he can be as grumpy and tired as he likes. It might even be quite entertaining. In fact, Sherlock can think of at least four experiments he would like to trial on a sleep-deprived Watson. Although, there are several variations of different categories for his ‘Excellent, but Not Good Ideas’, and those definitely fall into three of them (inadequately planned, possibly ethically unsound, likely distressing to John), if not more.

Therefore, alternative action should be taken.

“No, but you apparently have the same ability to measure your own fatigue. Allow me to assist : _you need to go to bed_.” Ugh, repetition. It grates against his teeth, always does. He tells himself it’s elaboration to make it less irritating. Sometimes sacrifices must be made. “There’s some diazepam in the bathroom cupboard.”

He rolls his eyes for extra effect and then lets them slide out of focus and cloud, feign disinterest as he dwells in the accessible edges of his mind. He’s not _away_ from the room, just in another realm of it. Far enough that John won’t be embarrassed at his prodding, close enough to be reachable. Or, perhaps… oh, yes, John thinks Sherlock is of the opinion that he _can’t_ sleep, whereas they both actually know it’s that he _won’t_. Sherlock is perfectly clear that it’s John’s slightly warped sense of self-preservation keeping him up. He doesn’t want to see those things again, mysterious and nameless though they are to Sherlock. John is easily the bravest man he has ever known; fear is not something he can bear. Being unable to conquer it (with dreams being inconveniently uncontrollable), he is electing to try and avoid it altogether.

Sherlock surfaces again and looks over his fisted hands, clearing his throat to show John he has his attention once more. “I have some ketamine to mix with the benzos if you’re after something a bit stronger,” he offers graciously. “It’s even pressed into tablets, nice and easy. In the old aspirin bottle on the second shelf in my room.”

(There is an unspoken trust between them for John to not to take things from his room (even if it does not exist vice versa) and certainly not to be stupid enough to put any of the room’s contents in his mouth. In Sherlock’s opinion stupidity on that level would deserve any resulting… No, maybe he’d better not finish that thought. Questionable ethics all over again.)

Finally, “Christ.”

“The combination of the two should render you unconscious enough to affect —”

“No.”

“But the likelihood of partial amnesia —”

“Sherlock. Just. No.” John takes a calming breath. His rousing temper is actually quite remarkable, considering the relatively comatose state he was in a few moments ago - perhaps an addition to the list of Tired John Watson Studies? “I am not doing myself up on a hallucinogenic cocktail, thank you. Not tonight… Not ever. And just why do you have a secret stash of ketamine?!”

“Experiment.”

“Of course.” Another deep breath. A moment of concern of whether he can trust Sherlock or whether the experiment excuse is a front. A contemplation that the experiment (which he has now decided was real) may have been on him. One more double lungful of air. “But thank you for the offer.”

“Anytime.” Sherlock retreats back behind glazed eyes and wonders if he had imagined the lack of sarcasm in the gratitude.

John sighs and closes his book. He stands up and stretches creakily. In his mind, Sherlock can see the slip of warm skin revealed under the hem of his t-shirt. He deletes that image immediately.

* * *

 

“Sherlock?” John is interrupting… something…

“Nnghh?” He can’t quite bring himself to mind too much. He was asleep, after all, so the something can’t have been too important.

“Snails. There are… snails.”

“Oh. Yes.” That does ring a bell. Connections start firing, just a bit slowly - he must have been sleeping too long.

“In the bathroom.”

“Yes.” Yes, that’s it. Something like that. How interesting. He closes his eyes again.

“Are they leaving any time soon?”

“I’ll sort it out in a minute.”

“Thank you.”

The old floor whines in protest as John moves to leave. Sherlock joins it.

John apparently heard that. “What?”

“I said when you turned the light on, what did they do?” No he didn’t, but never mind that, it’s actually a good question.

Confused pause. “Uh… snaily… things.”

Sherlock fights the smile that response brings and instead aims for annoyance. John would be expecting that. Too many of his responses these days are manufactured; it’s actually quite tiring. “Go away now, John.”

John takes no offense, which is a shame. “Don’t go back to sleep. Get rid of the bloody snails.”

About ten minutes, Sherlock calculates (judging on his mood, time since last shower, sleep achieved, temperature of the flat, probable caffeine consumption), before John returns. He will be irritated then, perhaps a bit terse. He’ll do that thing when he opens and closes his mouth a few times before he speaks, maybe clip his words into snappishness. Even possibly give a little frustrated growl from his throat. Yes. That would be nice. He’ll wait for that.

It isn’t ten minutes. It’s not even two. “Sherlock! Snails. Shower.”

“I said in a minute.” Being wrong isn’t always tedious, or disturbing. Not that he’d ever admit that aloud.

“It’s been more than a minute. And you were snoring.”

“I don’t snore,” he huffs, but he gets up. Makes sure John gets a full view of his naked arse while he reaches for pyjama trousers to go with the crumpled t-shirt he was sleeping in.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” His dressing gown hits him in the back, but it’s an unsatisfactory blow for either party, just flopping and slithering silkily down to the floor. John is smiling as he turns away to leave again.

Sometimes, Sherlock gets these little niggling clues and inklings from John’s reactions and embarrassments that maybe, just maybe, John knows more than he lets on, feels more. Sherlock would like to sit and examine them at some point, but the risk is that he’ll contort them to his own liking, edit out the bits he doesn’t like and exaggerate the ones he does. The worst kind of evidence explorations are the biased ones, so he lets it be for now.

* * *

 

John is not broken today. He is far from broken, Sherlock decides. In fact, in a high-pressure, adrenaline-fueled situation, he seems to be the one doing the breaking. Sherlock wants to be relieved, pleased, proud… but once he starts he won’t stop, and he can’t spare the time or thought-space right now. He’ll save it for later, when he can dwell on (and in) it.

He sprints to take the leap over a wall, careful to catch up his coat on the way so it doesn’t drag back and ruin the whole dramatic effect. The jewelled necklace is heavy in his breast pocket, but not as heavy as the feeling it lies nestled against - the pressure of having left John behind to defend himself.

This wasn’t supposed to be like this - it was a simple break-in and return of stolen goods, a handover and a reward. A family issue, no need for the police, no charges being pressed, just a black sheep to be disowned. Instead, now they’re being pursued, followed by thumping footsteps and the crack and ping of a bullet ricochet, and John has already been forced to break a vase, a nose, an arm, and a chair over someone’s head. Well, the chair wasn’t forced, but it was a nice flourish. A Holmes can appreciate a flourish.

There is more to this than a simple diamond pendant. He should have it figured out by now; the pieces should have realigned according to the new data and slotted into a new solution. He can’t help thinking though, that he has just been too distracted. How has he let John become a distraction? He is supposed to conduct the light, not obscure it.

 _Oh_. Sherlock stops short, breathing heavily, leaning against the bonnet of a car. _That’s_ the problem. John has stopped conducting the light. John has eclipsed the light - swallowed and consumed it, absorbed it and coaxed it into a whole new spectrum. John has _become_ the light. He is more important now than anything, _everything_ else. It takes all Sherlock has ever known and learned and worked for and strived after, and throws it to the side, discarding it as useful, but just not _enough_ now. Nothing will ever be enough now.

“What are you doing?” John shoves him roughly from behind. “Get a bloody jog on.”

He overtakes and Sherlock spares a second to watch him move, ducking down low into the shadows and slipping from one cover to the next.

Familiar approval and attraction blooms in his belly and he wonders how it ever took him this long to realise.

* * *

 

He sneaks into John’s bed in the early morning, just as the grey dawn is warming to yellow. It’s the yellow Sherlock can’t stand - undertones of hopeful pink. No thanks.

There are no dreams at the moment, just a horrid lack of. An inky blackness lurks just beyond his reach. The distance that he can’t quite stretch across with desperate grasping fingers is frightening. There is nothing so terrifying to man of mind as the potential loss of it. And sometimes his creeps and inches further and further away while he watches on.

It’s wrong, Sherlock knows, to steal the bed-space of one who is unaware. But he also knows it wouldn’t bother John, or not as much as it should. The two men have shared more important things than a bed in the course of their friendship, more personal than a sleeping situation. He’d probably pretend that it does though, bother him, if he woke to find his flatmate sill there. As soon as John starts to stir, Sherlock will have to sneak back out and hope that John doesn’t notice, all the while perhaps hoping that he does. Hoping that he rolls over to feel the warmth of the duvet beside him, breathe in Sherlock’s scent from the pillow, stretches out in body-creased sheets. And maybe smiles to himself.

For now, though, Sherlock turns back over to find the golden heat behind him. He wraps a careful arm over it and pushes his face into the smoothness of a shoulder. The warmth seeps into him, spreading and soothing the relentless itching thrum of his consciousness. His mouth tastes only of metal, but he breathes through it to imagine he can detect the flavour of the man he is curled around. Hot tea and oaty biscuits, a dusting of earth, sugary sweet sweat.

* * *

 

There is no such thing as normality in their lives. Or if there is, it never lasts for long. This time it has been quiet and placid for two days, or forty hours, not long enough to drag, not quite at the unbearable stage yet. Perhaps just beginning to niggle around the edges. John potters and putters and does his thing. Sherlock is making progress on his exotic mold cultures and the investigation he is conducting on the effects of breeding them on skin samples in various stages of decomposition. He’s even updated his index, for the first time in what feels like forever. Moved four of the Ms from functioning and active to not. M seems to be a common initial for criminals - he should look into that. But later, when it’s not all so… fresh. He files a mental note to remind himself later, scribble and check.

* * *

 

John stares sightlessly out of the window. The look on his face places him far from the room, somewhere else, somewhere hot and dry and dusty, with the greenish light of fluorescent strip bulbs and humming fans. Or maybe somewhere grey with mist and misery and cold winter sunlight chillingly glowing. The glance he spares at his hands on the way back to reality shouts of surprise. He expected them to look different; blood-spattered and gunk-smeared? Holding a gun? A scalpel? A bandage? A limp, dead wrist? Anything but the air they now fail to grasp.

Unbearable. Haunted eyes. John looks up to find Sherlock watching (or maybe not-watching). Lost. Despairing. Hopeless. Helpless. Unbearable.

Unacceptable.

“Pass me that pen.” Sherlock gives the curt command.

“What for?” John retorts belligerently. He is right to be belligerent; Sherlock has no paper, no need for a pen. But John is also annoyed now, with purpose, not lost.

“Never mind. I don’t need it anymore.”

 

 


End file.
